


Johnlock Advent - a Holiday fic in 25 mini bits

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, First Kiss, First Time, Holiday, M/M, a gift exchange gone bad then really good, mulled wine and mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2700776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as it says on the tin! Each bit is 221 words of one continuous Holiday themed johnlock story.</p><p>Happy Holidays dear readers!!!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gift

“Sherlock, please? For me?” John flashed his best smile, complete with pleading eyebrows and eye crinkles. The one he knew would work. Sherlock would, of course, need to look up from the gift bag in his lap to see it.

“That smile doesn’t work on me,” Sherlock frowned shoving the gift to the floor. He stood, turned and crossed his arms to stare out the window. Knowing if he looked into those eyes any longer he would cave in and wear the ugly thing.

“What does work?” John asked, setting the gift bag in his chair and crossing the sitting room. He slipped behind his pouting flatmate, a wary hand hovering at the small of Sherlock’s back. Cautiously, he let his fingers brush the silky fabric of that ridiculous red shirt. Not enough to touch skin, but close enough to feel the heat of the man beneath.

Sherlock stiffened, clenched his jaw and fought the shivers threatening to give him away. “Nothing works, I am mad at you now go away. I need to think.”

John jerked his hand back and Sherlock found he missed its presence immediately. “Fine,” now he was the one pouting. Tossing back the remainder of his mulled wine, John snatched the bag from his seat and stomped upstairs. Making sure to slam his door extra loud.


	2. Guilt

Sherlock flinched and listened to John’s heavy footfalls upstairs. He could hear the military precision of pacing, the perfectly executed turnabout, a pause, then John crossed to his desk. The soft sound of a bag settling was followed by his chair scraping across the floor. John shifted between each foot. Wavering in indecision until he walked two more steps and collapsed in a creak of bedsprings. Sherlock could see him perfectly. Sprawled face down on the mattress, muffled anger venting into his pillow.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock turned from the window and returned to his chair. “Five for five,” he muttered to himself. “I ruin them all.” Absentmindedly he flicked lint from his shirt and stared into the fire. A crushing pain blossomed behind his ribcage. Each indrawn breath harder to maintain. _Focus_ , he chided himself. Sherlock tuned out each sound from the flat until all was white noise and thought back to each Christmas since he met John Watson.

The first one he spent on edge, after that ill timed case and The Woman. Sniping each guest in turn. And John had been with that droll woman. _She dumped him that day, right?_ Sherlock tried to recall. He searched his memory of that night only to find John’s sad frown and the defeated sigh behind his “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to post this one a little bit early as I will be working all night.


	3. Regret

John screamed into his pillow until the storm passed. _I wanted tonight to be perfect_. He punched the pillow. “Every fucking year,” he said, rolling over for air. On his desk, blue foil packaging mocked him.

Closing his eyes, John thought back to the first Christmas he spent with Sherlock. How he had confronted his feelings for the man downstairs after Jeanette called him out. He thought about missed opportunities, unopened bottles of wine. Secret love confessions never voiced.

Then, just six months later, Sherlock died. And that year had been the single worst Christmas in recorded history. But of course, of course, the arse popped back up the following November, as if no time had passed at all. But by then everything had changed, and despite the flat being full of laughter and familiar faces once again, a rift had grown between them.

A rift Mary filled with lies and attempted murder.

Last Christmas with her rated as John’s second worst. First he had to hug and forgive the woman who’d shot his.. his best friend. And then the very same man turned around and got himself exiled.

Now, almost a full year later, John was trying to repair all the damage between them. _Maybe I missed my chance_ , he wondered. _Maybe I just don’t get to fix this one._


	4. Different

**Eight hours earlier.**

 Though John began decorating the flat weeks ago, Sherlock hardly noticed.  Aside from the smell of pine and cinnamon in the air and tinsel glittering on the edge of his vision, he had hovered unawares until Christmas morning.

“No, Greg, I’m sorry but no.  No, we won’t be available.  Yes, I understand--  Just this once I--   Okay.  Thank you.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock stepped from the bathroom, a towel ruffling his damp hair. John whipped around, met his flatmate’s eyes and flushed pink.   _Guilt?_ Sherlock thought.  “Was that a case?”

“Tomorrow, I mean, yes, but not today, Sherlock,” John stammered and turned away, no longer meeting his eyes.   _Lying. John don’t you know by now I can read you?_

 “I see,” Sherlock said, brushing past John to begin making tea.  He settled the towel to his shoulders and opened the cabinet just behind John.  “But we’ve had cases on Christmas befo--”

“Not this year,” John interrupted, stepping to the side.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, fingers drumming beside two mugs on the countertop.

“It’s different,” John said simply.

 

**Christmas Evening.**

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.  John's words from that morning echoing in his mind.   _What’s different?_ he wondered, looking around.  His eyes danced over fairy lights, the small tree in the corner, the mistletoe hung over--

 _Oh_ .  The answer hit him.   _We’re alone._

 


	5. Air

John pushed himself up with a groan. He flipped his legs over the bed’s edge and leaned forward, elbows to knees, face in his hands. His shoulder twitched in complaint. _You’ve been shot_ , he reminded himself. _You’ve been wrapped in semtex, had snipers and assassins sent to kill you. Hell you were thrown in a bonfire. You’re Captain Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and you are not a quitter._

He shifted, sat up straight and popped his back, cracked his neck with a satisfying jolt and stood. John spotted the abandoned gift bag slumped on his desk and made a decision. He would simply start over, get the man a new gift and continue with his dinner plans. Sherlock wasn’t going to spend another year thinking this thing between them was just.. nothing. Renewed determination hastening his steps, John walked back downstairs, slipped on shoes and grabbed his coat.

“Going out for some air,” he said. But turning he was met with Sherlock’s face, softly lit in profile from the fire. The wet of his eyes reflecting the dance of multicolor lights. Waiting for John's usual outburst. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to cross the room and hope a kiss would be enough explanation. Instead John slipped his gloves on, opened the door and offered a promise, “I will be back.”


	6. Fix

The moment the door downstairs closed, Sherlock was on his feet and back at the window. He pushed the curtain aside just a fraction and watched John pause, then look up and down the road both ways before heading towards-- “Not the pub then,” Sherlock said, feeling a weight vanish from his chest. _He’s decided not to drown his problems this evening. That means it can still be salvaged,_ Sherlock thought.

After all, Sherlock hadn’t meant to get so cross with John earlier. But one call to NSY told him there was indeed an interesting murder worthy of investigating. And John had kept it from him. Of course he was going to get upset. He hadn’t really meant the things he said but John had to know, after the call, that Sherlock was going to see any attempt at merriment as derailment from something much more interesting. John should have expected as much, and probably had if Sherlock were being entirely honest. But now...

Now Sherlock was feeling the burden of guilt that came with realization.

He watched John’s silhouette vanish over the hill then turned to survey the flat and plan his apology. Unsure when John would return, Sherlock knew time was limited. A small skip of excitement to the open door and he bellowed down for backup, “Mrs. Hudson!”


	7. Tesco

He had to walk fifteen extra blocks to find a Tesco actually open for business on Christmas day, but John passed the time texting Sherlock’s delightful mum. Numb fingers aside, John found himself smiling down at his mobile with each passing intersection. Mrs. Holmes being more than helpful in divulging not-so-secret family recipes and giving the boys her blessing despite John’s reassurance that he was not actually proposing, just confessing affection.

**Whatever you say my dear! He likes honeysuckle. - Mummy**

John laughed and tucked his mobile back into his coat. The store was warm and mostly empty. He looked around at each labeled aisle, hoping a gift replacement would make itself known to him. But nothing jumped out. Grabbing a basket, John decided to start with the food first. Maybe something would catch his eye among the pasta and veg.

By the time his cart was full-- Sherlock’s beloved childhood biscuits, favorite port for a new batch of mulled wine and a honey filled chocolate treat whose name came with a ten minute story about Mycroft’s sweet tooth-- John found himself whistling along with the carols pumping through the sound system. Even wishing the frowning cashier a ‘Happy Christmas’ with a wink on his way out. (Though that might have been in part due to skipping the chip and pin machines.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sadly my PC has been confiscated by rude people. I will try to update from my phone until I get to NY on the 12th, but no promises. :[


	8. More

Mrs. Hudson took one look at the flat and decided it needed “more.”

“More what?” Sherlock looked around thinking it was decorated quite enough thankyouverymuch.

“More.. something. I’ll be right back.” And in an excited swirl she was gone, flying back downstairs at a pace meant for someone a quarter her age.

Sherlock shook the shock from his head and removed his housecoat. If John wanted a romantic evening alone, dinner would factor in and their kitchen was still a ripe mess. And since Mrs. Hudson had decided not to lend a hand with the tidying, it fell to him. Rolling up his sleeves, Sherlock looked between the piles of dirty dishes in the sink, the cluttered dining table and the icebox. _Dishes first_ , he reasoned. Fighting the grimace that came with diving one’s hand into cold water and slimy bits to release the stopper.

An hour later, Sherlock binned the last bit of his toxic experiments and wiped the table clean. He was washing his hands when Mrs. Hudson reappeared with a box of ornaments for the tree and a beautiful green and gold tartan tablecloth with a pair of holly wrapped candles.

“You go get dressed,” she said. “I’ll finish up out here.”

Sherlock smiled his thanks and ran upstairs to John’s room. He knew exactly what to wear.


	9. Surprise

John stopped at the bottom of the stairs bracing himself for the possibility of failure. Or worse, an empty flat. To his right, Mrs. Hudson’s flat was dark and empty, the faint whiff of her perfume still clinging to the hall. She’d most likely left for her sisters just moments earlier. Closing his eyes, John sent out a silent prayer before heading up.

What greeted him was such a complete surprise he had to take a step back and brace himself on the door frame.

The tree had been trimmed with more ornaments, a handful of freshly wrapped gifts beneath. New strings of fairy lights lit up the right side of the room and there were candles lit on the dining table. The _clean_ table. John’s eyes went wide and he took a shaky step forward.

Behind him, he heard footfalls descend the stairs. He turned and gasped.

“You,” John swallowed, searching for words. Sherlock stood on the bottom step, hands clasped behind his back, fighting a blush. “You’re wearing it.”

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked, pointing to menus scattered on the side table.

John shook his head and laughed, holding up the shopping. “Got it covered thank you. Why don’t you put some music on and I’ll make dinner?”

Sherlock smiled, beamed really, and crossed the room to pick up his violin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: the next few chapters (9-11) will go up early as I will be moving and unable to post. You can read them daily on my [tumblr](http://abitnotgood.co.vu) instead.


	10. Duet

Sherlock started with a medley of classic carols that John could happily hum along to. But as John sorted the shopping, Sherlock slipped into a haunting rendition of _Blue Christmas_ that left them both a bit teary eyed. A stiff throat clearing and the opening pop of wine broke the silence. Two glasses set aside, John poured the rest into his pot with mulled spices and fruits. He crossed the room to fetch the mobile from his coat as Sherlock watched, curious.

“Are you,” Sherlock stopped playing to watch John flit between mobile and measurements. His eyes grew wide as realization struck home. Baked ham, Swiss gruyere, fresh dijon. “Those are my mum’s...” he trailed off. John paused rolling puff pastry to respond with a wink before returning to the task at hand.

Sherlock crossed the room, lifting the empty bottle of port and spied the familiar label. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed. For a moment he hovered just beyond John’s reach, fighting every urge to kiss him.

Instead, he went back to his spot by the fire and started in on _Mistletoe and Wine_. John joined in, humming as he set the baking and began setting the table. By the end of the song they were both singing along, ignorant to the man in the doorway until he applauded their duet.


	11. Family

“Mycroft?” both men asked in tandem, transfixed as the elder Holmes let himself in, settled into the red paisley chair, crossed his legs and straightened his trousers.

“I do hope I’m not.. intruding,” Mycroft spoke, offering John a wry over-the-shoulder smile and turning back to give his brother a knowing look. “Mummy insisted I stop in and drop off these,” he waved his hand and Anthea materialized in the open door with a mixed bouquet of honeysuckle and lilac and a bottle of red that looked older than the Queen. 

“Umm.. thanks. You really, really needn’t have--” John began, fumbling to quickly grab a vase for the table.

“Nonsense, John. I was assured it was quite necessary. Though Mummy was quite insistent that I knock… yet it seems you just left yourselves wide open, hmm?”

“Okay, that’s enough. Thank you,” John stiffened at the implication and shooed Anthea back out. He shot Mycroft a single raised eyebrow. His I-mean-business attack eyebrow. Mycroft flustered but rose from the chair and made his way back to the door.

“Brother dear, Doctor Watson... Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock finally spoke. John and Mycroft both turned to find him smiling. “Give mummy our best-- Oh!,” Sherlock skipped to the tree and grabbed two gifts. “These are for you.”

Mycroft choked. John laughed. Sherlock kept smiling.


	12. Touched

Mycroft reached out to accept the gifts. Glancing down as Sherlock turned and quirking an eyebrow in question at his new attire. Sherlock simply smiled leaving Mycroft to mumble a hasty “Thank you” on his way out. John still in shock, staring in disbelief. Shaking his head only when the door downstairs clicked shut.

“What did you get him this year?” John asked finally.

“Nothing special,” Sherlock answered, “just some cufflinks.” If those cufflinks happened to be fourteen karat goldfish, well no one needed to know why Mycroft was currently downstairs sighing and shaking his head. 

Before John could ask anything else, the oven timer went off and he rushed to rescue supper from over baking. He removed his oven mitts to fetch plates when a warm palm fell to his shoulder. 

“John, sit. I will serve us.” Sherlock stood beside him, close enough to smell the cologne and soap on his skin. John nodded and let himself be guided, relishing the feel of Sherlock’s hand gripping him. Unnecessary as it was. 

“Thank you,” John murmured as Sherlock settled him to his chair and gave his shoulder a squeeze. Seeking a touch of his own, John’s fingers rose to pat the hand but it was gone. Sherlock back at the counter fetching plates, humming with the carols leaking from next door.


	13. Wine

John found himself humming along with _Silent Night_ , finishing the rest of his port as Sherlock sipped his own glass at the counter top. Mummy Holmes’ nibbles were served first with a glass each of the mulled wine. Without much else in his system, John sat back and grinned up at his flatmate, his mood floating on bubbles and warmth.

Sherlock served up their plates and settled across from him. Long legs tangling between John’s knees beneath their small dining table. Another unnecessary but very welcome touch. John shifted his knees closer, brushing against the sides of each thigh. He settled his glass back and found himself staring as Sherlock’s pink lips wrapped around a mouthful of canape. John’s own mouth suddenly dried, he licked his lips in response.

The taste was perfect, every Christmas from his childhood flooding Sherlock’s senses. He couldn’t contain the moan of delight that slipped free. Self consciously, Sherlock opened his eyes to find John staring at him, pink faced and giddy. The energy between them heating the entire flat, he reached for a drink to quench the sudden thirst only to be further flamed by warm wine and warm smiles. John’s knees shifted again, brushing against his thighs and Sherlock settled his glass down a bit too heavily.

“John--”

“Sherlock,” they both began to speak.


	14. Sorry

“Sorry,” they spoke over one another again. John breaking into a grin as Sherlock tried and failed to hide his giggling.

“You first,” John decided, reaching for another nibble to otherwise occupy his mouth. 

“About earlier,” Sherlock began. His eyes darted down to watch John’s lips wrap around wide fingers, licking and teasing crumbs from his thumb. Sherlock cleared his throat and began again, seeking distraction in the centerpiece. Picking loose petals from the arrangement as he spoke. “I wanted to apologize. For what I said and how I..” he searched for the right word, “behaved.”

John waved a dismissive hand, eyes pinched in sadness as he began shaking his head. “No, please. I get it, Sherlock. I should have just told you the truth this morning.” John flushed in renewed guilt then added, “It’s not too late, I could call Greg if--”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted a bit too loud. He lowered his voice and continued. “He can wait. I mean, the case. The case can wait, as you said. For tomorrow.”

“Okay,” John agreed. He rose to refill their wine.

“After you left, I started to put it together,” Sherlock reached up to accept his new glass, watching John settle back across from him. “You wanted to.. I mean, I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah,” John said simply, confessing nothing and everything.


	15. John

“I couldn’t wait another year,” John said. He paused and waited for the truth of his admission to sink in. “Ever since that first Christmas. I’ve been waiting, always it seems, for the right moment.”

“Since the first..” Sherlock scrunched his nose up in a way John would later admit to finding quite adorable. “Irene?”

“Yeah,” John said again. Hoping everything he couldn’t say was making sense. “I even.. and the wine but then she was there and..” he trailed off.

Sherlock did the thing with his nose again. Then his eyes lit up and he looked across the table, mouth hanging open in shock. _John had been bringing wine in that evening, when Irene was found in my bed. Oh god_. “That long?”

“A lifetime,” John smiled despite the pair of rolling eyes across from him. “I’m serious, Sherlock. Irene helped me admit it but I’ve lo-- I’ve cared about you for a very long time.”

Sherlock’s eyes joined his gaping mouth at John’s aborted confession.

“Every Christmas has been such shit for us,” John continued, looking down. “First her, then.. that one. And then you were back but we had.. god. And then Mary and Magnussen. Complete shit.”

Laughter erupted across the table and John looked back up from his hands. Sherlock’s head tossed back, his adam’s apple dancing.


	16. Sherlock

“What’s so funny?” John asked. 

Sherlock wiped tears away and quickly recovered, “No, John it’s just.. all this time. I assumed you wanted.. well, something else. You had that string of girlfriends, kept declaring how not gay you were and you got so upset when people insinuated there was anything between us. And now you’re.. you mean to tell me… all this time?”

John couldn’t help but laugh along. It was all rather ridiculous.

“Well, for starters, I am bisexual--” he said.

“Yes, John, I figured that out after James,” Sherlock sighed in his I’m-not-actually-an-idiot tone.

“Ah. And what about you then?” John asked defensively. “Mister Married-to-my-work?”

“I’ve been foolishly waiting too, it seems,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “All these years I assumed it was better to keep things professional between us rather than face rejection. And I couldn’t believe someone like you would even want to be flatmates with me much less friends.. or.. John look at you. You are amazing and kind and brilliant yet so humble about all that you are. You never cease to surprise and amaze me. Me! And despite everything horrible I’ve said and.. done..” His face grew solemn as a private memory filtered through. “You have always believed in me. And even the worst memories here with you are preferable to that Christmas without you.”


	17. Alone

“I understand,” John said. “The year and a half after you… when you were.. gone.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

Sherlock looked down to his hands, fidgeting on the table. He didn’t want to kill the flowers so he’d stopped picking at them and opted for tapping his fingers instead. Without looking up, he spoke. “John, I.. I’m so.. very sorry for--”

“Sherlock, no,” John interrupted. His hands were across the table, wrapping around Sherlock’s, stilling them. “You don’t have to, I mean. I know why you had to.. Yes, look, it was hard for me. But it couldn’t have been good for you. I’ve seen the-- after Mary..” he paused to catch his breath. Squeezing Sherlock’s clasped hands. “In hospital when they were operating, I saw.. God, Sherlock. If anyone should be apologizing--”

“No,” Sherlock looked up suddenly. His eyes pinched in concern. “No, you don’t.. John. I was alone, yes, I missed you. I.. needed you. But it was _my_ choice that landed me there. Alone. But you were alone all that time because I.. I _left_ you.” He looked at John pleading, begging him to understand how he would take everything back if he could. He would trust him.

“It doesn’t matter,” John said simply. “You came back to me. That’s all that matters now.”


	18. Tangled

Sherlock looked to John, finding the sincerity in his voice reflected in clear eyes and a soft smile. He flipped his hands around slowly, linking their fingers together. John looked down to their joined hands in surprise. His eyes lighting up momentarily, thumb softly shifting to stroke over Sherlock’s knuckles, down the back of his hand.

“I forgave you and now, all I want to do is move on,” John said. “With you,” he added. Cautiously, he raised the tangle of fingers to his lips, flipped Sherlock’s hands to the side and kissed the tips of each thumb. 

Sherlock froze in shock. Every nerve tingling from the gentle touch of John’s soft lips pressing to his skin. He nodded, decided something and gave John’s hands a tight squeeze before disentangling from the hold. John stared in trepidation as Sherlock stood. He watched his flatmate muttering softly, Sherlock’s hands wringing as he paced beside the table.

“Sher--” John started but the man abruptly crossed to the sitting room. John watched him wavering between their chairs by the fireplace. Sherlock seemed to be looking for something, confused.

Before John could find his own feet, or apologize for misreading the evening, Sherlock returned standing just inside the doorway. He extended a hand down to him, “Come.”

“What?”

“I want to give you your gift.”


	19. Mistletoe

John smiled and took Sherlock’s hand, letting himself be pulled forward. There was barely a breath between them. Sherlock held both his hands, fingers slotted back together. No gift to be seen. John flushed warm and dizzy, not wholly due to the wine. “Umm.. Sherlock?” he asked after a beat.

“Mm?” Sherlock pulled him forward, closing the small space between them to rest his chin atop John’s head.

“You said you had a gift?” John could barely speak, his voice shaking in excitement. He had no idea Sherlock would be so.. physical.

“Oh. Yes,” Sherlock shifted again, freeing his hands to slip around John’s waist. He leaned back, face tilted to the ceiling. “Look up.”

John followed Sherlock’s gaze and -- “mistletoe?” he asked. He’d known it was there, just forgotten. Mrs. Hudson’s silly idea a few weeks back.

“Mhm,” Sherlock hummed in reply. John watched the muscles dance in his throat, wanting to taste the skin there.  But suddenly Sherlock’s fingers were in his hair, pulling. John closed his eyes, let himself be tilted as Sherlock took claim of his lips.

The first kiss was soft, testing. A small pause until John reciprocated with more energy than either of them expected and then they couldn’t be stopped for anything. One word echoing between each beat of their racing hearts. _Finally._


	20. Wrapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incoming M rating...

Sherlock pulled back, the inconvenience of breathing. He looked down a moment to savor the look of pure bliss on John’s face. Kiss plumped lips, pink and wet. His pale lashes fluttering open, eyes hooded and dazed. 

“Happy Christmas, John,” Sherlock said softly, dropping another kiss to the ruffled mess of blonde grey hair. “I hope you like your gift,” he smiled, teasing, “though I didn’t get a chance to wrap it.”

John laughed, the soft lilting giggle shaking through their joined bodies. He slipped his hands from where they had tangled into Sherlock’s shirt to slip lower, over belt and trouser to pinch two handfuls of bum. “Oh, I think you did a fine job with the.. wrapping,” he nearly growled the last word, leaning up to kiss and nibble up that ridiculous neck. John let his hands trail back up, slipping beneath Sherlock’s shirt to tease exposed skin.

The tiny yelp that escaped Sherlock’s throat was quickly swallowed in another kiss. John’s tongue determined to prod and taste every last inch of that warm mouth. He tasted of sweet red wine, honey biscuits and spicy dijon. John drug his nails down Sherlock’s back, pulling a sweet keening from his lips and harsher kisses. And when Sherlock’s high whines dropped to rumbling moans, John found himself walked backwards to the wall.


	21. Oops

“John,” Sherlock gasped between breaths. His hands tried to be everywhere at once. Pulling at denim clad hips, slipping beneath John’s ridiculous jumper.

“Yeah?” John asked, only to bring his lips back before waiting on a response. Sherlock shifted again and their hips lined up, John’s cock twitching as the friction of Sherlock’s own erection answered his. He bit back a groan, trying to will himself to slow down.

“John,” Sherlock repeated, pushing closer.

“Yeah..” John sighed, kissing across Sherlock’s cheek, to his ear.

For several minutes, neither man could find the sense to form words. Kissing and rocking against each other in a slow, steady rhythm. That was until a certain genius tried shifting their activities towards the sofa. A tangle of limbs snagged the upturned rug and flailed wildly, their hapless little tree sent tumbling to the floor with them. Decorations and pine needles everywhere.

“Oops,” Sherlock sat back on his heels, red faced and giggling. His curls were wild, laugh poorly disguised behind a shy palm. John lie sprawled beside him, rubbing a hand over his sore hip where he’d clipped the coffee table. He took one look at Sherlock’s face, the tinsel dangling from his left ear, and broke into a fit of laughter. 

“John,” Sherlock pouted.

“Yeah,” John stood, offering a hand down to him. “Sorry.”


	22. Fast?

Once they stood, John removing the tinsel and needles from Sherlock’s hair, a hefty silence settled between them. They passed nervous smiles and side glances across the sitting room neither man wanting to break the bubble of peace.

“I think,” Sherlock finally spoke, “we should move our.. activities.. to the bedroom, hm?”

John grinned up at him and nodded. “Yeah,” he spoke softly.

Sherlock took his hand, leading them both down the hallway. His heart was beating wildly, nervous excitement drowning out all thought. But before he could get to the door, he was jerked back. John had stopped moving.

“John?”

“Sherlock..” John looked at his feet, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Look at me,” Sherlock said, turning to pull John close to him. Waiting until a ragged breath was shaken free and John finally lifted his head. His face was stricken with fear, concern. “What is it, John?”

“Aren’t you worried?” John asked. Sherlock looked so calm and willing it was unnerving. “Don’t you think this is all too fast?” he said, hands gesticulating between them.

Sherlock laughed. John frowned, _was this all a bloody joke to him?_ “I’m serious!,” John nearly shouted.

“Fast?” Sherlock stifled his laughter, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Are you kidding, John? I think five years of foreplay is quite enough, don’t you?”


	23. Please

“More than enough,” John answered, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss. He shifted them both, pinning Sherlock face first against his bedroom door, hands held just above their shoulders, forcing the taller man to lean forward at an angle, his arse pushed out. John’s breath was hot and wet against his ear, rumbling low. “Five bloody years, Sherlock,” he ground his hips forward, rubbing a rather impressive erection along Sherlock’s bum. “I have wanted you for a very long time. So you better tell me now, if you don’t want this.” Sherlock whined in response. John’s hands slipped from his wrists, down to hold him by the hips. He leaned in closer, whispering. “Because I will take you, right now, if you let me.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered, pushing back to grind against him, “please.”

Permission granted, John set to work immediately. Undoing Sherlock’s belt and button and zip. The soft shift of fabric was followed by a moan as John found his prize. Sherlock’s cock hot and heavy in his hands.

Pinned between teasing hands stroking him slowly and the hardness pressed against him, Sherlock groaned in frustration. “John, please!” He shifted, lowering his own hands to reach behind, scrabbling for purchase, pulling John closer. John rocked them both forward and Sherlock grabbed the nearest object for balance. His doorknob.


	24. Peace

Time slowed as they tumbled into Sherlock’s bedroom, giggling and nervous. Sherlock was panicked and embarrassed, sure he had ruined the moment, if not the entire evening. He stood, trying to redress and put himself together when John’s hand stilled his movements.

“I wasn’t finished unwrapping my gift,” John said, looking up at him through hooded eyes. Sherlock flushed a deep crimson, but let his trousers fall back to the floor. He had to look away as John’s lips connected with his hip and worked their way lower. Licking and tasting him. He swallowed hard around a moan as John took him into his mouth entirely, hands gripping his arse to steady him and push deeper.

“John..” was all Sherlock could manage between ragged breaths. There was no room left for doubt. John wanted him, wholly.

To say John worshipped Sherlock’s body that evening would be an understatement. Everywhere he’d wanted to kiss, was kissed. His mouth a relentless lover and his hands, _god those hands_. Sherlock was taken to his bed limp and breathless. And when John worked him open and finally slipped inside, it was Sherlock’s name that filled the space between them.

They each came with a shout before collapsing into the tangle of sheets. In the peace that followed, was the best sleep either had in years.


	25. Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everyone~!

In the morning, John woke to the smell of coffee. Shuffling into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, he took a moment to process the sight before him. Sherlock was making breakfast, humming and dancing in nothing but his gift. His pants clad bum peeking out from the bottom of the ridiculous jumper.

“I take it you like your gift?” John asked, leaning against the counter to enjoy the show. Sherlock jolted, nearly dropping their plates. John couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped free, he never surprised Sherlock.

“Morning, John,” Sherlock turned. “Of course I like my gift,” he tugged at the jumper, snuffled his face into the collar. “It smells like you now.”

John crossed the room, no longer able to resist touching. He slipped behind Sherlock, arms encircling the thin waist, pulling him close. His own face tucked to Sherlock’s neck, peppering him with kisses.

“And how about you?” Sherlock asked, carefully pouring two mugs of coffee as John held fast, draped around him. “Did you like your gift?”

“Mhm,” John hummed into Sherlock’s neck, pulling in a deep breath to smell the man, “I love him.”

“Oh?” Sherlock crossed the room carefully, John shadowing his movements. He settled their mugs beside breakfast on the dining table before turning to return the embrace. 

“Good.. he loves you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged me and gave feedback through the last few weeks. I hope you all enjoyed yourselves and have a happy holiday! 
> 
> and without further ado...
> 
> Sherlock's Jumper:  
> 


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